Chapter 38 – At the Table
The sun had long withdrawn from Venice's narrow alleys and stone-paved courtyards. The sounds of daytime trade had faded, replaced now by gondoliers' songs, distant violin melodies, and laughter rising from tiny piazzas nestled between alleyways.
Guided by Viki, Murad, Cafer, Kasım, and Balibey left the inn and made their way toward the quieter southern part of the city. As they passed through the main streets, Viki's elegant stride cut through the crowd like a blade through silk, the men following in her wake. The city had taken on a different face in the magical hour of dusk—shops were closing, yet life continued under the soft glow of street lamps: masked couples strolled, wine bottles dangled from windows, and laughter echoed along the canal banks.
After a while, they reached a canal and hired a gondola to cross. Kasım nearly lost his balance stepping in, but Balibey caught his arm just in time. The gondola glided across the dark waters, drifting through Venice's inner arteries until they arrived in the southern district where aged noble residences lined the water. The night breeze, mixed with sea salt, swept against stone walls, and the gentle sound of waves whispered beneath the starlit sky.
Giovanni's home was a modest yet elegant Italian stone house. The ivy along the façade spoke of age and simplicity. There were no baroque sculptures or gold trim—only refined stonework, delicate garden lanterns, and a central arched doorway that radiated the quiet dignity of a noble but humble household.
They were greeted at the door by an elderly maid in a black apron. Viki gave her a curt instruction:
"My father's guests have arrived. Please show them to the guest room. I'll inform him immediately."
With a nod, the maid led them in. The guest room overlooked the front of the house. High-paned windows lined the far wall. In the center stood a carved walnut coffee table surrounded by leather chairs. The walls bore framed landscapes and a few aged family portraits. The room was simple, but it exuded refinement—and a sincere sense of hospitality.
As the men sat in silence, footsteps creaked from the wooden stairs above. Then the door opened, and Viki appeared first. She smiled—but this time, there was something deeper behind it.
Behind her stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties, with greying hair and a kind but solemn face. His eyes scanned the room before locking on Murad's. He stepped forward and spoke in a voice that trembled with emotion:
"It's you... You're Murad. You look so much like Anastasia."
Murad was momentarily at a loss for words. Then a calm smile crossed his face.
"Yes, Mr. Giovanni. I'm Murad," he replied.
But before he could finish his sentence, Giovanni stepped forward and embraced him tightly. Murad was stunned. Cafer and Kasım stood behind, unsure of what to make of it. This was not just a greeting—it was the warmth of kinship, of bloodlines intertwining across time and distance.
When Giovanni pulled back, he spoke gently:
"Please... call me uncle. I'd like to hear it."
Murad nodded with a soft smile. "Very well... Uncle Giovanni."
In that moment, he felt a warmth he'd never known before. A sense of belonging. Of family.
Wanting to lighten the mood, Giovanni clapped his hands together.
"Come—let's eat. I've had a special dinner prepared for you."
They passed through a wide arched hallway into the dining room. This room was decorated in warmer tones, with a long rectangular table occupying the center, covered in a rich spread of food.
Sautéed vegetables in olive oil, grilled sea bass, spiced chicken stew, wheat pilaf, smoky eggplant hummus, savory cheese pastries… Each plate had been placed with care. Of course, there was no pork on the table—Giovanni had prepared thoughtfully for his guests. Instead of wine, pomegranate juice and lemonade were offered specially for Murad and his companions.
In the flickering light of the lanterns, this dinner was not just a meal—it was a meeting of past, future, and fate at the crossroads of family and destiny.
At first, silence reigned over the table. The clink of silverware on porcelain was the only sound in the room. In keeping with Ottoman tradition, Murad and his men did not speak during meals. One ate, but did not talk. Strangely enough, Giovanni and Viki followed suit. Whether they had learned it beforehand or grasped it instinctively, they respected the unspoken custom.
Soon, the dishes were cleared away silently by the servants. Giovanni turned to a young maid standing nearby.
"Dear, we'll move to the summer garden. Bring tea, coffee, and some cold sherbet."
He turned to Murad with a warm nod.
"Come, let's continue our conversation in the garden."
The wooden doors opened to a modest but beautiful courtyard. The night air of Venice wrapped them like a cool blanket. The garden was stone-paved and lined with vibrant flowers, softly lit by a few lanterns. The marble seating was elegant, and the scent of basil and lavender lingered in the air.
Everyone settled in. Shortly after, a young maid arrived with a silver tray full of tea, coffee, and pomegranate sherbet. Murad took a glass of strong tea and took a sip. There's nothing like tea after a good meal, he thought.
Giovanni sat quietly, pulling out a worn leather pouch. With slow, practiced movements, he filled his pipe, lit it, and took a long draw. The smoke curled around him like memory. Then he turned to Murad. There was a weight behind his eyes—as if he had decided to unburden something long held.
"When I was a boy, I hated the Turks," he said abruptly. His voice was neither angry nor accusing. It was the gentle unsealing of an old wound.
"People like you… took my sister from me. Turned her into a slave. I was young, helpless. But that night I swore: I would grow up, and no matter what it took, I would find her. And if she lived, I would save her."
Murad listened intently. So did Cafer and Kasım. Even Viki's gaze was fixed entirely on her father.
"When I turned twenty, I traveled to Istanbul. I searched inns, slave markets, old merchants—turning every stone in hopes of finding my sister. All in vain. Until one day, while sitting hopeless in an inn, I overheard rumors at a nearby table…"
His eyes drifted slightly. He was remembering a distant past.
"They spoke of a woman… a slave who became a sultana. A Venetian woman. They called her Kösem. I felt a glimmer of hope—but the name had changed. I couldn't be sure."
He took another puff from his pipe.
"I started watching the palace. One day, I followed some court servants returning from the market. With a few coins, I confirmed the woman was indeed Anastasia. That night, I wrote her a letter. Told her I'd be waiting at an inn—and that if she didn't come, I'd attempt to enter the palace myself."
Murad was now fully focused.
"That night… the door opened. A few guards entered first. Then she… my sister… walked in. At first, I didn't recognize her. My memory had frozen her in time. But now she was a queen. She told me she couldn't return. That this was her new life. That she was… pregnant."
Murad's heart paused for a moment. He imagined his mother, carrying him, uttering those words.
"Seeing her happy and healthy… was enough for me. I left. Now and then, letters came. The last one… just days ago. She told me about you. That you would come. And she asked me to help you."
Giovanni tapped out the ashes from his pipe onto his knee. His eyes were still misty.
There was a silence. The only sounds were the gentle wind and the clink of empty glasses.
Murad looked at the pipe, the tea, the man before him. He felt the weight of his legacy echo through this stranger—this uncle. And before he spoke, he lowered his head with solemn respect.
"Thank you… uncle."